Winter Yields to Spring
by December Writing Dragon
Summary: A collection of oneshots featuring various pairings, though primarily RusAme with some FrUK and FRussia.
1. Table of Contents

**Chapter 1:** Table of Contents

 **Chapter 2:** Winter in the City (RusAme); America surprises Russia for his birthday in Time Square.

 **Chapter 3:** New (FrUK); Arthur likes consistency, which Francis's sudden entrance into his life goes against.

 **Chapter 4:** Deep Breath (RusAme); a trip to a poolside party turns dangerous. Luckily, the hero is ready to save the day.

 **Chapter 5:** Too Little Too Late (RusAme); Ivan and Alfred meet in college and experience a lifetime of emotions.

 **Chapter 6:** Start from Scratch (FRussia): France appreciates fine fashion which, unfortunately, Russia's grandpa sweater look goes against.

 **Chapter 7:** Heaven (RusAme): As darkness encroaches, so too does light, and Ivan is safe and warmth with his beloved once more.

 **Chapter 8:** Sun-Kissed (RusAme): Ivan tries to enjoy a calm, concealed day at the beach. Nothing is ever calm with Alfred and Alfred wants nothing more than for that accursed shirt to come off Ivan's chest.

 **Chapter 9** : 2 v 1 (RusAme): It's the snowball fight of the ages. On one team we have America, and on the other we have Russia and his scarf! Based on the prompt "snowball fight" for the RusAme Holiday Event.

 **Chapter 10** : Ancient Fortress Burning (RusAme): There was a tension in Russia's shoulders present only when with America, a special brand of discomfort reserved for him, and only him. America liked being the source of such unease as little as he liked Russia's bouts of emotional distance.

 **Chapter 11** : Transient (RusAme): Not everything is as it seems, and sometimes the truth comes far too late. Featuring Deaf!Alfred and hearing!Ivan.

 **Chapter 12** : Starvation (RusAme): Their kisses were not always gentle, their words not always tender. Yet for all the strength their eternal lives granted them, every touch left them starving for more, left them longing for that impossible tomorrow.

 **Chapter 13** : Our Spring Eclipse (RusAme): They were two extremes of opposing forces, two paths flowing toward the same goal, as polarizing...and identical as anything ever was. And when their spring arrives, their strength becomes each others.

 **Chapter 14** : Luchik i Zimovich (RusAme): Alfred is a flickering flame of life longing for someone to share his warmth with. As a winter blessing, a mysterious young man named Ivan enters his life, as delicate and fair and fierce as the coldest December nights. But the union of fire and ice comes with a heavy cost. Is the final price of love worth it in the end? AU based on the tale of Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden.

 **Chapter 15** : You Can Choose Your Family (RusAme): Russia and America have a child, albeit the circumstances are a bit unconventional. Alright, they're downright bizarre. Their "child" is literally a plastic bag. Both crack and a commentary on Russia and America wanting to start a family very badly.


	2. Chapter 2

Just a small rusame oneshot for Russia's birthday. Happy Birthday, Vanya!

 **Winter in the City**

"America, can I at least fix the blindfold?"

"No! You'll peak!"

"America, it's starting to cover my nose."

"I'll do it then." There was a pause. "Stop scrunching your face, man."

"Your touches are tickling."

"Shouldn't have told me that."

"Don't you dare."

A mild scuffle ensued in which America attempted to tickle his blinded boyfriend. Russia retaliated by landing a firm smack to America head.

"Ow! Hey- can you see through that? How'd you hit me?" America rubbed at his nose, giving Russia a wide berth for fear of another hit.

Despite his predicament, Russia gave a sly smile. "I can smell your last meal on your breath, solntse." He took a loud sniff. "Double cheese pizza, extra garlic, and pineapple. The toppings you reserve for a special occasion." Russia's oversized nose crinkled in disdain.

America scowled, flicking at said nose, causing Russia to make a swipe for his hand. "Hey, I brushed my teeth."

"I can smell your shampoo too." Russia took a step forward, bumping into him. "Strawberry. It suits you."

Though America rolled his eyes to his unseeing boyfriend, there was no holding back his grin. It stayed with him as he once more grapes Russia's shoulders and continued to guide him to his birthday surprise. "Shucks, that's sweet of you to say. But now it's back to no talking- c'mon, I want you to see this!"

"It would have gone faster if you just let me see."

"What did I just say about no more talking?"

Russia shook his head, but allowed America to lead him on, warning him of any steps or turns he needed to make along the way. In truth, Russia had been quite surprised America had planned so much for his birthday- and had kept it secret for so long. When excited about something, Alfred couldn't wait to tell everyone about it. Strangely, he seemed very excited about giving Ivan his birthday gift. It perplexed Russia even now that the American would be so anxious to do something like this for him. When questioned about it, Alfred had merely shrugged, throwing in that blinding smile for good measure as he said "Hey, a hero lives to see his lover happy."

America was always doing things like that, Russia mused as he was led around another turn. Always throwing in comments that seemed too kind to be true, with no hint of a lie detectable.

"Any guessed as to why I had us come to the Big Apple?" came America's confident drawl as they came to a stop. Strong fingers reached up and began undoing the fabric covering Russia's eyes.

Russia shook his head. "I'm sure you'll tell me though."

The blindfold was pulled aside and Russia's gaze was filled with dazzling lights, but strung from the massive Christmas tree, and sparkling in Alfred's eyes. "You've never seen the Rockefeller tree, babe! We're going ice skating right in front of it, then having a stupidly fancy dinner, then I got us tickets to see the Radio City Music Spectacular!" Alfred gave one of those infectious smiles that made Russia want to cover with his own lips. And so, that's exactly what he did.

"Thank you, dorogoi," he murmured into Alfred's mouth.

"Mmm. Don't thank me yet, babe."

Russia pulled back to eye the other nation closely. "I admit I'm slightly surprised you did not take us to the ballet. That's your usual surprise for me."

Color blossomed across America's cheeks, staining them an attractive pink. "I got tickets just in case."

At this, Russia's amethyst eyes widened. "America, how much did you put into this? A night at home would have been fine!"

But America waved away the protests, not wanting to hear any of it. "Hey, your job is not to question me and just enjoy tonight. Besides, we're heading home after all this for cake and your present.

"And what would that be?"

"Top secret, sorry, babe."

Russia found out why America told him not to thank him during the performance, when the participants lined up and held up signs reading "Happy Birthday Ivan" and a spotlight shone right on him. Even with how cool the building was, Russia felt his cheeks blaze with heat. He slid down as far as his large frame would allow, face buried in his hands, mouth uncovered only enough to recite a whole slew of threats against Alfred, who merely grinned merrily beside him, flashing the performers a thumbs up.

Dinner turned out to be the Russian Tea Room. Ivan felt a stab of satisfaction; Alfred loved using these little cultural nods as parts of his presents. But his sympathy for America wallet made him insist on covering tips. Back home, the two curled up by the fire, where Alfred presented his gift of a handsome silver pocket watch, an ornate floral design covering both sides; on the face behind the hands was a brilliant yellow sunflower. Russia wasted no time in enveloping America in a fierce hug, placing kiss after kiss in those honey colored locks he so loved. America took it all in stride, beaming at Ivan's joy, rubbing his back and breathing into his ear, "Happy Birthday, big guy."

THE END

As always, reviews welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

Human AU in which Arthur learns to try new things.

 **New**

Arthur was like a cat. He liked consistency. He also kept to himself. He consistently kept to himself. So when this outgoing man from parts unknown to him entered his life, he did not think it would be for the better. Francis was, Arthur felt, everything he himself was not. This, he also felt, was not for the better. Arthur's dress was practical and professional. Francis made sure that even a brief stop at the office was accompanied by something that looked like it belonged in a runway. Francis kept his hair long, loose, and tidy; Arthur's hair was a short crop of messiness. Arthur was calm and borderline reclusive. Francis was boisterous and ready to talk with anyone, even stick his nose in their business under the guise of "helping." Pah. Francis was also very French, which went against almost everything Arthur believed in life. That accent would sometimes haunt his dreams and waking hours alike if exposed to it for too long. He wondered if there was an ointment for that. A repellant. Frog repellant.

Apparently one day he had voiced this question in the presence of said Frenchman, because the next thing he knew an elegant eyebrow was being raised at him and he had to deal with that stubbled face breaking into a smooth smile. "Oh? But how will I be graced by your presence, cher?" he asked with that throaty voice of his. Pah. What would the queen think.

"Just like you to mistaken your presence for a blessing rather than a curse," Arthur shot back.

Francis made a disapproving tut. "Your ears are unfortunately clogged, my little friend." Ah, that was another difference that made them destined to never be compatible. Arthur was rather short, while Francis was almost statuesque. "My days feel deprived of a certain je no sais quoi when I do not see you."

Pah.

"Pah," Arthur said as much. "Flattery will get you nowhere when mixed with that huge ego and poor taste in…everything." He eyed his no doubt expensive outfit.

That annoyingly elegant eyebrow was up once more. "You make it very difficult to ask you on a date, mon amie, but some struggles are worth it."

Was that a compliment?

Emerald eyes narrowed, boring holes into those deep blue pools before him. "And why should I say yes, Frenchie?"

Francis smiled again, but there was something rather different about it, something warmer, almost humble. "Because you are rather delightful to be around and I would like to extend that time beyond the workplace."

"It's a terrible match."

"Give me a week to win you over."

"Alright, Frenchie, if by the end of this week you can make me change my mind, I'll say yes. Just to one date though."

The following week saw the two of them making conversation between sips of wine inside a rather lavish restaurant, and Arthur learned that sometimes it was good to try new things.

THE END


	4. Chapter 4

**Deep Breath**

Ivan had been avoidant of the water for a while.

It wasn't as though he never had the chance to learn to swim, oh no, his parents had been keen on all three of their kids being able to. No, his issue was a stupid stunt pulled by one of his uncles. The day had been going rather well, a nice getaway to their aunt and uncle's lakeside dacha. Except his uncle, being a bit of a prankster, had tossed he and his siblings one by one into the lake. His sisters dealt with it well; Irunya had already mastered swimming rather well, and Natalya was like a fish as soon as she hit the water, completely in her element. Ivan, however, was more cautious around it, learning in baby steps. So when, in a rush of air and sound, he found himself suddenly enveloped in water, he did not take it well. His mother had screamed herself hoarse at her brother that day, who had apologized again and again and given Ivan extra dessert each dinner for the rest of the trip, and Ivan had never gone swimming since. Trips to the beach were fine from the safety of the shore and beneath an umbrella and ten layers of sunscreen, but anything more did not suit Ivan very well.

The only reason he found himself at a raucous pool party on a perfectly good Friday afternoon was because he and his boyfriend had been invited from some mutual friends from another college; it was one of the rare chances to get the whole gang together. Their international motley group was a strange matchup but rather close, albeit dysfunctional.

"Don't worry, babe, there's nothing wrong with just hanging out in the lounge chairs. Can work on that tan of yours," Alfred said bracingly, bumping hips with Ivan. Ivan sighed, but managed a smile.

"Da, actually, I have been thinking I might go in the low end," he confessed.

Alfred beamed. "Dude, that's awesome!"

Except with one mistake, the low end turned into the deep end. Ivan still was not sure who had bumped into him, but much like years ago at the dacha, his world became twisted round as he went hurtling into the water. The sound of the mighty splash was muffled as he sunk beneath the surface. For how large and powerful his limbs were aboveground, they seemed utterly useless now in this wet world of blue silence. Bubbles poured from his mouth as he tried to call for help. Above him, the sun shimmered tauntingly through the waves. His chest ached.

Alfred gaped at the spot where Ivan had been seconds before, replaced instead by an empty space and spraying water. A horrid sight reached his eyes as he darted over and saw the wavering form of his boyfriend struggling to get back up, succeeding only in sinking further until his movements slowed. Alfred did not think- no contemplation was necessary- in a second he dove into the pool, clawing through the water down to the bottom. He wrapped an arm securely about Ivan's torso, the other one waving madly as he dragged their combined weight up, up, up.

The relief of air washing into his lungs was short lived as Alfred scrambled to get Ivan's prone figure turned around onto his back, his face alarmingly blank.

"Come on, babe, come on," he muttered as he pounded at his chest, pinching at his nose, and breathing air down his throat. This couldn't be happening…

With a cough that made his whole body jerk violently, Ivan gasped and spat out what looked like a gallon of water, blinking dazedly up into Alfred's eyes, the sunlight looking like a halo.

"An angel saved me," he said weakly, managing a smile.

Alfred let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob, swearing in relief and incredulity. "Only you, dude."

"Mmm. You can keep kissing me, if you like."

"I'm not sure you deserve it."

"Please?" Another cough. It was that, more than anything else, that brought Alfred's lips back to Ivan's as the rest of the partygoers hooted and whistled in approval now that the danger was behind them all.

"Next time just start with the low end," Alfred muttered against Ivan's lips.

"Gladly. But only if you will be there to save me."

"Deal."

THE END


	5. Chapter 5

**Too Little Late**

They had first met in the rain.

Life had not been kind to Alfred that day, at least not until that point. One of his professors had sprung an exam on his class that had supposedly been announced weeks ago- though all of his fellow classmates swore they had never been informed- and it was his tirade after the test that was overheard by said professor. Sure his grade was ruined, Alfred had been in a slump for the next hour, which unfortunately required him to make an important presentation. A group presentation. His partners had not been thrilled.

Now he was seeking comfort in the bottom of a Styrofoam cup, his morose figure reflected back at him in the piping hot brown liquid. The heat from the drink fought off some of the cold from the rain- he had not thought to bring an umbrella- but it did little to shake the chills from his spirit. Glasses fogged from something other than heat from the coffee, Alfred decided to move to where the weather reflected his mood; he marched outside. Shivering against the wet bullets peppering his face, he was fully prepared for a slow trek back to his dorm.

But then the rain stopped.

No…no, that was not quite right; the rain had not stopped. Rather, it was blocked. Alfred blinked, blue eyes darting around. Beside him stood one of the largest humans he had ever encountered. A shock of beige hair framed a handsome rounded face atop broad shoulders and massive chest, standing almost a foot taller than Alfred. Violet eyes sparkled like gems beneath the bangs clinging to his forehead, dampened from the humidity.

"That is how you catch cold," the stranger said thickly, adjusting his umbrella to better cover Alfred.

"Ah, dude, man, put it back over yourself, I'm fine-"

"This is nothing," the stranger cut in, a small smile playing across his features. Alfred thought it impossible for him to be anymore handsome, but the presence of that smile proved him wrong. "And I dress warmer," he added, tugging at his own thick coat.

"Ah. Right."

Silence followed, perhaps for only a minute, or perhaps for a day, as the rain hounded at them relentlessly.

"Is that good?" the young man asked, pointing a long thick finger at Alfred's forgotten coffee.

"What? Oh! Eh, not the worst thing ever." He chuckled. So did the stranger. It was a nice sound, hearty and deep, something one could never tire of hearing. It forged lovely little crinkles in the corner of the man's eyes and set his cheek bones into further focus. His nose also scrunched rather cutely; it was a nice nose. Large. It was around then that Alfred realized he was staring. Heat rising in his cheeks, he quickly looked away, focused on the drenched campus around them, at his shoes, at the puddles forming, anything to not get lost in those violet stars.

"Ivan Braginsky," the man introduced, extending his free hand. Alfred shook it promptly.

"Alfred F. Jones at your service!" Apparently something in his toothy grin pleased Ivan, for his smile became more bashful and color rose in his cheeks Alfred was sure was not from the chilly air nipping at them.

No, one easy conversation on the way back to the dorms later, Alfred and Ivan found themselves quite enchanted. Alfred learned that Ivan was relatively new to the state, almost as new as he was to the country. He was enrolled in an astronomy class, a different time than Alfred's, but with the same professor. Having recognized Ivan's enthusiasm for the subject, the professor had suggested he join the astronomy club, for which Alfred happened to be in charge of advertising.

"I see the posters everywhere with your email but wanted to talk in person," Ivan informed him as they got themselves comfortable on one of the couches of the student lounge. "Only today did one of my friends mention they know you." That had been a rather surprising conversation, actually. Toris had been concerned that one of his partners for a group presentation had been rather down. When asked, he explained how he was working with Alfred.

"Oh, god, that nightmare." A roll of the eyes. "I'm glad that's behind me."

Hours passed with them just making conversation, broken only as the other averted their gaze, losing themselves in seas of sapphire or violet. They had not even realized they had been inching slowly closer and closer until their knees were bumping and fingertips brushing. Awkward touches and nervous laughter turned into an equally awkward invitation to meet up again after classes tomorrow, or anytime in between. An agreement was happily arranged, and both went to their dorms with butterflies.

Alfred became more aware of Ivan's presence as time went on. Looking back, he figured he should have realized how often they crossed paths before then, but now suddenly it was truly dawning on him just how often they saw each other. It almost frightened him how easily they could have never interacted. Ivan began attending astronomy club, helping with ideas for field trips or events, and just generally renewing Alfred's excitement and faith that maybe not all interest in space was lost forever. Ivan even talked Alfred into choosing Russian as his foreign language requirement- a choice he had put off too long already. Next semester, he would be taking Russian with one of the best tutors available.

Next semester, Ivan would not be there.

It started with sad looks, sad smiles, and sad farewells. Their first kiss, Ivan had looked at him with such tenderness Alfred was sure his heart would burst from his chest. But his eyes had held the kind of longing a man bears only when he knows how futile his want is. It was the kind of knowledge that made everything seem in vain.

Nevertheless, Ivan still looked, still smiled, still said farewell. It was his thinness that next caught Alfred's attention. Once a hulking bear of a man, Ivan almost seemed to be wilting. His lovely platinum locks seemed dull, drooping, less pronounced. He was winded easier, needing to pause after climbing the stairs to Alfred's floor, almost gasping for air after a prolonged kiss as a drowning man might fight to fill his lungs just one more time. Alfred asked about it. Oh, Alfred asked about it. Eventually, Ivan's looks of guilt and despair yielded to a steady flow of tears. A moment later they were wrapped in each other's arms as Ivan confessed to him the news.

Ivan was dying.

Oh, it would have been so easy to lose himself to his grief. So easy to hone in on the horrid emotions just yearning to burst through, to stain his face with salty rain, carving out his heart and leaving it to rot, beyond emotion. It would have been so easy…

But it was Ivan who needed him, needed his positivity, his love. And so Alfred meticulously kissed away every accursed tear that fell from those beautiful violet pools, ran his fingers through his platinum hair, trying to imagine them again as the fluffy locks they had been, and smiled when Ivan could not. This was something he couldn't stop; for all his notions of heroics and good triumphing in the end, there was no villain to beat up and lock away. There were only Ivan's cells multiplying and destroying him from within. How, how could such a gorgeous being be plagued by his own self, haunted by what had been the shell of a beautiful human?

Ivan apologized again and again for having become so involved with Alfred- not out of regret for himself, but for Alfred. It was not until recently that he had discovered his ailment, and being with Alfred had been his greatest taste of life's wonders. Alfred had merely nipped at his earlobe and muttered "Next time you say sorry it's gonna be your nose." He had made good on his promise, causing Ivan to stare wide-eyed at him, eventually letting out a nervous chuckle that morphed into a tearful bout of laughter.

That had been their last date together before Ivan needed to be hospitalized. Then, all talk was done from his bedside, Alfred shuffling in and out as Ivan's parents and sisters came and went, sometimes sitting with them or else bowing out so as not to crowd Ivan.

Alfred had not been there when Ivan flatlined. He only needed to answer his phone and hear Ivan's sister's painful sobbing to know what had happened. He had gone to the hospital anyway, and sat beside Ivan's bed cradling the bony hand, rubbing reassuring circles into it and telling the empty shell how grateful he was to know him. All the while, his heart was flooded with regret and longing…the kind of longing a man bears only when he knows how futile his want is. It was the kind of knowledge that made everything seem in vain…

They could have been so much more.

How much time had been wasted…

 _His bangs are all messed up_ , Alfred thought in alarm, gently brushing them back to how Ivan always wore them. There. Better. "That's right, yeah?" Alfred's last day of winter break was spent telling Ivan that all would be okay, that Alfred was here, he would never leave, that they would work things out, don't you dare apologize.

His language lessons had gone on just long enough for Alfred to make his final statement to Ivan at the funeral. With the eyes of Ivan's family boring into his back, Alfred laid a bouquet of twelve sunflowers down and muttered:

 _Do svidanya, Vanya. Ya ochen tebya lyublyu._

THE END

AN: *realizes halfway through I could have gone with a punny response to the prompt of "doing" like "dying to meet you"* *realizes this is not drabble length*


	6. Chapter 6

Based in part by a conversation with genderfluid-russia on tumblr. Enjoy! Centered around the sentence "You heard me. Take. It. Off."

 **Start From Scratch**

"Hello, Russie! Ah…Russie?" It took all of France's willpower not to draw further attention to the spectacle before him. "Cher…you know we are headed to the park, oui?" France asked carefully. Russia nodded, a warm smile plastered handsomely across his face. Physically he was always quite easy on the eyes, with a personality that was an acquired taste, but once France had a sample, he could not get enough. Unfortunately, his wardrobe left something to be desired. Like right now. Their little late spring/early summer trip to the park would have them milling about under clear skies and warm breezes. Russia, however, was donning a rather thick cable knit sweater with an atrociously gaudy pattern stitched into it below a deep tan tweed jacket. Below, his legs were clad in a tan color that matched a shade in the sweater, but otherwise reminded France of the color of neglected wood on an abandoned building. The shoes France was certain were crafted in the 1890's. Tying it all together was Russia's beloved scarf from his sister, perhaps the most attractive article of clothing he was wearing.

"It is nice to see you again, Frantsiya," Russia said sweetly, leaning forward and pressing a kiss against the stubble on France's cheek. France gathered his wits in time to return the kiss, taking in the smell of Russia's cologne. He wouldn't let the eyesore in fabric form detract from their day. Russia held out a bouquet of roses, which France took with a smile.

"These are so very beautiful, Russie. Though they pale in comparison to you," he said immediately, internally being rather selective regarding what was beautiful about Ivan in his current attire. That statement brought a pretty blush to Ivan's face and caused his date to stutter as he always did when faced with such praise. Poor man did not hear such compliments nearly enough. France had made it a mission to rectify the situation as much as possible during their relationship.

So, with that in mind, he decided against asking Russia about his outfit.

0o0o0

Their day went rather well from then on. The sights where magnificent, the company even better. France always liked to note how nicely his slender hand fit in Russia's larger calloused one. The warm air ruffled his long golden locks pleasantly. Russia seemed to be enjoying himself, although judging from the pink tinge to his cheeks (not from France's flirting this time!) he was rather overheated.

"Darling, perhaps you are overdressed," France said not unkindly. "If you would like to take that…jacket off, I would gladly carry it for you while you cool down." He almost called that tweed number something other than a jacket. Certainly it had no right being considered an article of clothing. With how old fashioned those shoes were, France was certain they must be pinching his toes too.

Russia shook his head, waving a hand dismissively through the air. "I mean fine, thank you, dorogoy."

But France would have none of it. When Russia had raised his hand, France had caught sight of the watch he was wearing: a rather handsome one-of-a-kind watch that did not deserve to be in the company of such mismatched out of season clothes.

"Cher, take it off," France said in a tone that would brook no argument.

"Chto?"

"You heard me. Take. It. Off."

Russia had time only to blink twice before France was on him, attempting to shrug him out of that accursed shirt before Russia overheated and France went blind.

"Come, the day is young. We are heading back, and I am choosing your clothes. You are a handsome man- show it off. Do not hide behind such disgusting things. I will not have these abominations tarnishing the image of my Russie. No, I will not. You deserve the finest silks and cotton the city has to offer, and you will not argue with me. I am going to help you dress to look as fine as you do. Understood?" All this was said as he yanked the tweed jacket off, scowled down at the shoes, and tugged Russia in the direction of the nearest clothing store. "Come."

"You did not like any of it?" Russia asked, more astonished than hurt. "But it matched."

"You have such beautiful things in your country- surely you have a better understanding of color than this," France said imploringly as they marched into the store, the door opening with a gentle tinkling noise.

"Well, yes- for architecture and utensils and such."

"Then we shall make it carry over," France promised. He breathed deep the smell of new clothing. "Let us start with Neiman Marcus."

THE END

As always, leave some feedback so I know how you feel about all these!


	7. Chapter 7

"Hey, Evie," came the unusually quiet voice. Ivan's head snapped round, finding the source immediately to his left. But no…that was impossible…

There beside him lay Alfred. But it could not have been. Alfred had been sixty-eight when he died. The man before him could not have been passed his mid-twenties. But he was looking at him just the same way his Alfred always did, as if he were the best thing in the world.

When his stuttered comments broke passed his lips, Ivan was surprised to hear his usual thinning gravelly voice was back to its usual strong baritone. Looking down, his hands were no longer veined and wrinkled, but thick, strong, the skin back to its even tone, the nails healthy. Everything about him was healthy.

"But…"

"Shhh," This look alike of Alfred soothed, leaning over and pressing a reassuring kiss on his forehead. "You're okay now, gorgeous," he muttered into his hair. Alfred had always liked his hair.

"I…I was just in the hospital…my sisters were just here."

"I know."

"You know?"

Alfred gave him a sad smile. "I've been with you every day, Evie. Always trying to give you strength. And now I'm here to bring you to our new home."

Ivan slowly straightened, surprised once more by how effortless it was. "Home…again…with you." It was very slowly coming together. Around them was nothing but gentle golden light, mighty masses of cotton candy clouds, and an unrelenting sense of calm. And Alfred. His Alfred, who was now holding out a strong hand for him to wrap in his own. With a heave, Ivan was helped to his feet, legs strong once more. Gone was the oppressive hospital room, gone was the pain, gone was the ache that had plagued his heart since Alfred had died. They were together again. Alfred was here to wrap him in his arms again. As naturally as breathing, Ivan drew Alfred close, finding comfort in the way his stubborn lock of hair tickled his nose, how his chin rested so perfectly on Ivan's shoulder.

If eternity would consist of this moment, that alone would be heaven.

THE END


	8. Chapter 8

**Sun-kissed**

"ALFRED!"

This was why Ivan couldn't let his guard down around the American. Ivan was lounging on a beach towel under the shade of an umbrella, close enough to the sway of the tides that he could easily get damp sand for his creation. The meticulous task of creating a sand sculpture of St. Basil's Cathedral to some might not have been conducive to a relaxing day at the shore, but for Ivan it was a challenge he needed to complete.

Except he was there with Alfred who was determined to get him out of his shirt.

Between prolonged touches, sun-kissed fingers running up and down his spine and picking at the hem of his shirt, and utilizing those accursed puppy eyes, Alfred was adamant that he should be topless. Ivan had informed him on more than one occasion that he preferred wearing a shirt for multiple reasons, some being sunburn, others being closer related to his unshaking self-awareness regarding his appearance.

Alfred only assured him he was "nothing but eye candy" and he would "reeeally appreciate it" if Ivan just wore his swim trunks.

Of course he couldn't have just taken Ivan's refusal and left well enough alone. He had been trying to slip the garment off him all afternoon, giving Ivan yet another stressor besides his sandy construction project.

Alfred's hands retreated from his torso, a sheepish grin on that tanned face. "Had to try, Evie," he said.

Ivan rolled his eyes with a shake of the head, returning to his sculpture. The domes would be the tricky part; he didn't have anything on hand to use as a mold…

A whoop and a shove turned his world on its side. A moment of blinding panic filled him as he worried for all his hard work, but mercifully, he landed just short of it, Alfred pushing him into the sand and latching onto his shirt. The next few seconds were a battle of wriggling and twisting as Ivan fought to get Alfred off. He eventually did, and when Alfred retreated with a triumphant cry, he brought Ivan's shirt with him.

"Alfred!" Ivan snarled, drawing his arms close to him in an effort to seem less visible. But Alfred had already fled some fifteen feet from his shady sanctuary. "Alfred, give that back!" he demanded.

"Come over here and make me," Alfred taunted, sticking out his tongue.

Ivan gulped. Took a deep breath. Allowed himself one last second to appreciate his covered little area. Then sprinted.

Alfred, for all his provocations, obviously did not expect such a response. His eyes widened beyond the ridge of his glasses as he turned on heel and pelted down the beach, feet slapping against the deep brown wet sand. Water sprayed around Ivan as he charged after him, his face burning with embarrassment, not aware that he looked perfectly normal in this setting, thinking only of how he saw himself, poorly.

When Ivan caught up with Alfred, he latched his arms around the squirrelly American in a sweaty bear hug. Alfred kicked and squirmed, all in vain, before going slack in his grip.

"Kiss and make it better!" Alfred declared before turning in Ivan's arms and planting a tender kiss on Ivan's lips. Ivan was so stunned he returned it immediately before pulling back and sending Alfred a reproachful look.

"I will be having that back now," he said evenly, snatching his shirt back.

"Sorry," Alfred mumbled through a grin.

Ivan shrugged. "I suppose it is only normal," he acquiesced. "To just wear a swim suit at the beach.

"You're hot, dude," Alfred said, throwing an arm around Ivan as the two made their way back to Ivan's sand sculpture. "I wish you'd see that. I get to spend all my time with a stud muffin."

Ivan burst out laughing at the phrase, the smile smoothing out to something smaller, but just as meaningful. "You tell me many times. I suppose there must be some truth?"

"Yeah, there it is," Alfred said cheerily, giving him another kiss.

In the end, Ivan completed his masterpiece, all while wearing no shirt. It earned him several more kisses from Alfred, and some mild sunburn.


	9. Chapter 9

**2 v 1**

Winter's chill had long since settled across the landscape, coating everything in a blanket of glistening white. Such pristine surfaces were undisturbed, muffling all sound to a respectful silence, the kind of quiet that amasses as the world shelters down for the end of another year. Everyone knows that the cold will bring a kind of closure of its own, and most withdraw into their homes to wait it out.

While others embrace it.

Deep gauges formed in the otherwise smooth coating of snow as the two opponents darted about. Cheeks and noses red, their breaths came out in billowing puffs as they panted.

A snowball burst into a cloud of white as it collided with a tree Russia had taken shelter behind. America grunted in frustration. As far as he was concerned, he was already at a disadvantage, going against "someone half-yeti," but a few choice teases from Russia had been enough to silence most of his complaints. He didn't want it believed he, Alfred F. Jones, couldn't handle the challenge. And so they had engaged in a battle of wills, a test of their resourcefulness and endurance.

Russia had been on the retreat for most off their snowball fight, skillfully dodging, darting, ducking, leaping, and- worst of all- laughing. Under normal circumstances, America would have taken it as a sign of impending victory, except Russia was proving just so hard to catch. Snow reached as high as their knees in some places, yet he waded through it like punching through tissue paper. America tried to compensate with a strategy of excess aggression, scrambling hurriedly after the retreating man, but it was as if Russia had a second sense for his movements.

Which he probably did, the sneak.

"Ha!" America cried, hurling a snowball with all his might at Russia's head poking out from behind the tree. Their eyes met for a second before at last he hit his target, and Russia quickly withdrew back behind his hideout. America whooped victoriously, readying another. "Not so unbeatable now, huh?" he called, taking slow steps towards the tree. "What's the matter? A little snow in your face making it hard to battle? I'll go easy on you, don't worry, babe."

One final step, and he rounded the corner.

Only to see the very imposing sight of Russia beaming down at him, both hands clutching sizable snowballs; the ends of his scarf were also raised, curled of their own accord to cradle more snowy projectiles ready to be thrown.

America's throwing arm wavered for but a moment, and though Russia had already begun firing, America let out a war cry and charged forward, flinging his solitary snowball and scraping up whatever else he could to hit Russia with. The cold stung his face and creeped down the collar of his coat as each of Russia's shots found their mark, but the real victory went to America in the brief look of surprise Russia wore right before America leaped forward and tackled him to the ground.

"Oof!" Russia grunted, the wind knocked right out of him. Snow chilled the back of his neck, seeped through the fabric of his clothes. America smiled down, blue eyes looking even more vibrant against the grey sky and landscape around them.

"Hands where I can see 'em," America drawled, scooping up some snow and packing it into a ball, ready to use it if he was not obeyed.

Something in Russia's eyes flashed mischievous violet, but he raised his gloved hands in a sign of surrender. America's smile grew, became far too satisfied. He leaned down, cold breath spilling over Russia's reddened cheeks. "I'll be taking my victory kiss now," he murmured, close enough now that Russia could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose.

Russia pursed his lips, nodding. "I suppose you will," he agreed, shifting slightly, as if to meet America halfway.

America smiled.

Russia struck.

The tail ends of his scarf, which had been subtly gathering more snow, smashed their chilly projectiles into America's face, dislodging his glasses and sprinkling him with glistening cold.

"No fair!" America squawked, backing away immediately. "You have an extra set of arms!" He made to wipe his face clean, only to shudder violently as his frigid gloves made contact with his face.

"I warned you you would not win." Russia sat up, plucking America's glasses from the ground. Tugging off one of his own gloves with his teeth, Russia brushed away the remaining snow from America's face. His lips were quickly warmed with a kiss. America pouted; Russia was charmed. He was the definitive winner that day.

THE END


	10. Chapter 10

**Ancient Fortress Burning**

A grain of truth resides in many rumors, no matter how warped it may become. At least, such was the case among the immortal nations in their lives of intrigue, bickering, tactics, reverence, and everything in between. For example, many believed America _needed_ to be the center of everyone's attention. Truth was laced through such a notion, however it did not touch upon the complex reasons why, the harbored quest for glory, validation, security. But America's desire to grab everyone's focus was very much present.

Which was why, as his gestures, voice, and speech worked to make himself as large as possible, America was perturbed to see Russia's blatant disinterest; it could even be called boredom. Decades ago, it was easy to grab the large country's attention, hold it, receive a smile. But this recent game of Russia's, this apparent disregard for America's grand proclamations, dug right under his skin, rubbed his nerves raw. If he couldn't make such a powerful adversary pay attention to him, what did that say about America? Weren't they supposed to be fixated on each other's moves?

Time flowed ever onward, bricks came crashing down, leadership changed, hands were shook. Tentative conversations started. There were gentle caresses that might have been accidents were it not for just how repeated they were. The touches became lingering, the distance they stood closed. Lips brushed against lips.

Bodies came crashing down. Tangled with each other, with rasping sheets.

But some shadow of that old distance remained. There was a tension in Russia's shoulders present only when with America, a special brand of discomfort reserved for him, and only him.

America liked being the source of such unease as little as he liked Russia's bouts of emotional distance.

And he said as much- with as much grace and tact as could be expected from the excitable man.

"Stop looking so constipated."

Russia's nose crinkled in obvious distaste, and the forkful of salad that was traveling to his mouth was replaced back onto his plate. "Pardon?"

"Why do you do that?"

"My bowels are perfectly healthy, if you wish to-"

"Why do you sometimes sound so far away? And like you're looking passed me? Something on your mind?" Apparently not America, that much seemed certain.

Russia frowned. "Many things. We have entire countries to manage."

"Not what I mean." Sadness tainted America's words, a newfound mournfulness that troubled him as much as he felt it. That caught Russia's attention; he opened his mouth, closed it, licked his lips. Some inner struggle was visible in the violet of his eyes, the whiteness of his knuckles as his fists clenched.

"Do not make something out of nothing, please," Russia said at last.

America deflated, but no sooner did his shoulders sink than he bristled, filled with a tension of his own winding him tight. "It's clearly not nothing. Sometimes it feels like you're always getting ready to just leave. Whatever this is, it's coming between us."

Russia rose from his seat, the chair legs screaming against the dining room floor, and oddly no sound better matched the sick twist this evening was taking. "Stop. This." Each word was dragged out from behind clenched teeth. "I am trying-"

"Trying would mean talking. Hey- where are you going?" America was hot on his heels, already caught up to Russia even as the other grabbed his coat. "Russia! What's going on? Talk to me- Vanya!"

The slightest pause, before Russia resumed gathering his things with renewed vigor.

"Russia, _please_ talk to me! Is it boss-related?"

"It's me-related." His voice was soft as his hand remained frozen on the doorknob. Utterly perplexed, America stepped forward, thinking he'd misheard. And he saw it. Russia's eyes were staring, unseeing, down at the handle. He looked frightened.

"What…what do you mean?" Though barely above a whisper America's voice sounded too loud to his own ears, the slightest vibration enough to shatter this moment. Shatter _them_.

Slowly, as if forcing himself to look into the very sun, Russia's gaze met his. "I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified."

No words passed America's mouth even as he opened it to speak. For a moment, the world stood still, immortalizing this single stich in the tapestry of their existence, wove it into something too vast to understand its beauty. Only when Russia's hand flew to his chest did the world release its collective breath and charge on. Brow furrowed, Russia took a few shallow breaths, likely willing his heart to stay in.

"Russ- Vanya," America said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. It surprised him how steady his hand felt as he raised it; it did not surprise him to see Russia determinedly stand his ground as tanned fingers caressed his cheek. "Then…let's be terrified together, beautiful."

Violet searchlights seemed to probe deep within him, suspicious, always suspicious, knowing how to make everything into something he could calculate, weigh the odds of. But that was a habit born of too many centuries of hardship, inconsistent with the soul of instinct and humanity Russia had been born with. It had been awhile since trust had been handed out to anyone but himself, but that was how it was meant to exist: embraced.

Russia nodded.

THE END


	11. Chapter 11

**Transient**

A persistent weight across his body was the first thing Alfred was aware of. Slowly, as thought of care and concern returned to his fogged mind, Alfred began to realize the pressure was uncomfortable, unrelenting, threatening to suffocate him-

No.

No.

He was alright.

His sensitive nerves were aware of the presence against his skin, a lighter presence, noninvasive, meant to comfort, to warm, to conceal him from the world and all its hurts. A blanket. Yes, it was a blanket. And that pressure, now blessedly subsiding, was simply the ache of his own body. But from what?

A flash and several loud bangs. Screams. But why did he ache?

Desperate violet eyes looking on in horror. Matching his own petrified sapphire. But not petrified for long. Because until he knew his loved one was safe, Alfred couldn't stop moving, he had to act until his dying breath.

But God, it felt like every breath could be his dying breath. A groan escaped him as Alfred made the mistake of trying to move, every atom of his being screaming in protest. Movement around him. A large, freezing hand clutching his own in a shaky grasp.

The blurred image of Ivan Braginsky swam into his vision. His glasses gone, Alfred could see enough to distinguish the pallid look to Ivan's face, the mingling relief and distress creasing his brown, sending shudders through his bones.

Still feeling as if he were wading through a dense fog capable of gripping him and dragging him down, Alfred managed a shaky smile. Ivan, above him, looked too captivated by the sight of his loved one finally awake to do much else. However, never breaking eye contact with Alfred, he raised a shaking hand, middle and ring finger pressed to his palm, thumb, index, and fifth finger extended.

 _I love you_.

 _You too_ , Alfred mouthed without a sound. He wanted to sign it, but even suggesting to his arm that it should move sent a leaden pain down the limb.

At last, Ivan returned the smile, still looking ashen and frightened. Still jittery, he began signing to Alfred. _I am so glad you are okay. You pushed me out of the way, you should not have done that, Alfred._

At this, Alfred had to cut in. _I couldn't just let you get hurt_. His arms felt too heavy to move with particular vehemence, but facial expressions provided all the tone signing needed.

This did not assuage Ivan's worry. Unlike Alfred, he was in perfect condition to sign angrily, and though the sound of his skin slapping against itself went unheard to Alfred, it was easy to tell just how upset Ivan was. _I almost lost you! Alfred, you were touch and go for so long, and you are still in ICU_. Ivan fingerspelled the letters again. _I. C. U. Do you understand? You are stable but still in critical care. And I_ -

Ivan doubled over, lowering his hands to hug himself. Alfred watched with an aching heart as Ivan's shoulders rose and fell in a quavering breath. _And I had to wait and wait, and even now the doctors will make me leave soon and I will have to wait and wait again while you are alone, and I cannot_ -

Face twisting in pain, Alfred raised his hands to get Ivan's attention. Taking sharp, shallow breaths, Alfred replied simply, _Come here_. He opened his arms. Ivan hesitated, looking warily at the needles and bandages covering Alfred. When Alfred remained steadfast, Ivan drew close, sinking gratefully but gratefully into Alfred's comforting embrace. This was wrong, Ivan thought bitterly, even as he melted against Alfred's fragile frame. This was wrong…he ought to be the one comforting Alfred, not the other way around…

Alfred petted Ivan's hair, even hospitalized always looking for an excuse to caress the locks he loved so much. He pointed at the both of them, then around the room, and fingerspelled _O. K. O. K._ Everything was okay, everything was fine.

Ivan gave a tremulous nod before sinking back against Alfred, relishing in the feel of Alfred here, breathing, warm, all beating heart and pumping veins. He only detached at the sound of a nurse approaching, informing him that he would have to go for a bit, Alfred needed rest. Ivan gave a small nod, drinking in one last prolonged look at Alfred, interpreting what the nurse had said, and promising he would be back as soon as he could. They exchanged a surreptitious sign of _I love you_ and smiles impossible to hide, before Ivan excused himself. Alfred sat back, feeling tired, aching, and still weighed down. The room around him had spun a few times during Ivan's brief visit, darkening occasionally, sometimes brightening. Grimacing, he made himself sit up in bed. The sooner he got himself back up to full health, the sooner he could go home with Ivan.

As he fought the dizziness and a few waves of nausea, Alfred watched as his doctor gathered coworkers into the hall. For anyone else, it might have been difficult to figure out what was being said, but Alfred had learned early on how to read lips with high proficiency.

Everyone was stony faced.

 _The test results came back. Mr. Jones will likely not make it through the night. The damage is too severe, even with every available option, his body is falling apart before we can heal it all. Any more work will likely cause further damage. We'll need to alert…_

Alfred had stopped looking, eyes staring ahead in mounting horror.

No.

No.

But Ivan…he had told Ivan…

Alfred did not hear his own broken cries as he tried to get someone's attention. He did not feel the mounting ache in his arms as he furiously signed to the swarm of nurses that they needed to find Ivan and bring him back, that they needed to help him, help Ivan, help them both, please, won't someone understand, just find him, find Ivan…

Alfred did not hear the quickening tempo of his heart monitor as the strain of his desperate pleas took a toll on his body. He did not hear or see the flatline correspond with his exhausted collapse atop the bed with doctors and nurses working frantically, knowing it was in vain.

Ivan left Room 303 with Alfred in it. Ivan entered Room 303 without Alfred in it.

THE END


	12. Chapter 12

**Starvation**

Their kisses were not always gentle.

Futility does something to a man. It establishes a type of urgency, a vigor that no other force can inspire. They say the best way to make something popular is to ban it; that was far too cold for their heated embraces, far too cruel and impersonal, but it did hold true.

No, neither would ever say their love existed simply to spite the rules set for them. The feelings between them were too tangible, too close to the heart. The sheer implication of such a notion was enough to fill their eyes with heartbreak and regret. Regret was not something they had time for.

Violet flames scorched beneath snowy platinum locks as Russia contemplated America from across the table. America did not make eye contact; half the time they never did during their silent exchanges. But both were painfully aware of the other's presence, of their searching gazes, of the longing, oh the longing.

Living for centuries also does something to a man. It makes him resourceful, cunning, maybe even a little conceited, sure in his might that no human force can contain his desires. And so it was for them.

Despite a tendency to follow his boss's guidance in the hopes of some worthwhile return, Russia had also developed numerous methods of defiance. He was too proud to let himself be ordered around, not again. Obedience was an innate quality, but so was a stubborn hold on life's nuances, and a determination to experience them all.

His eyes traced the contours of America's mouth, imagining, knowing all too well how they molded against his; it took no effort to hear the soft clacking of their teeth as their tongues massaged each other with painful slowness, as though they had all the time in the world. He licked his lips. America stirred, sparkling blue eyes darting over for just a moment to meet his gaze. In them, Russia saw the same raw emotions churning through him.

Longing. Longing. Affection. Determination. Such longing. Such love. Such hunger.

A second forced to be away from each other had them starving for the other's touch. Even after sneaking into America's hotel room and spending the night, leaving in the early hours of the morning, Russia missed the feeling of those tanned hands skating slowly up and down his arm, those lips brushing against the ruin of his neck, fingertips brushing through his hair, even that voice muttering nothings into his ear. He knew America cherished every touch of Russia's own pale calloused hands against the knobs of his spine, how Russia's hairy chest and limbs tickled him, the way his lashes fluttered when America muttered those sweet nothings to him. They were both fond of lying beside each other, a tangle of limbs and promises witnessed only by the silent night. Time away from all that had them starving.

Maybe today, Russia dared to imagine, not for the first or last time. Maybe today they would be blessed enough to walk out from the meeting hand-in-hand, openly planning their dinner date. Maybe today, Russia thought not for the first or last time. Maybe today they can go about boasting of their time together, allowed to show the joy they were blessed with.

And maybe tomorrow they would not be left starving for more.

THE END


	13. Chapter 13

**Solar**

I'll lasso the moon, pull it down, give your crown its final jewel, let you shine with the splendor you already make your own. Shame for the moon your molten starlit radiance outshines it by a light-year.

Shattered midnight etches upon the marble flesh. I heal you, I heal you if you allow. Just for a moment let the wall come down. This shield is not meant for me, across the seas you marched just for my unity. I shatter and shape, and whole you remain, that wholesome, tattered wondrous form you bore to spite the world.

 **Lunar**

Come rest, my weary sun, among the birches of my home after this daunting lifelong day. With your eagle's cry of freedom, break free of your eastern sunrises and western twilights, sail north to Hyperborea and still light the whole world and mine.

Now wish upon my star of steel and rust, sprung from this jaded, wondrous earth just to bring you flight.

And oh, how fortunate my redemption comes from suffering, my worthiness from endurance, for your scorching light fills my river veins, boils me from within and I feel joy, I feel joy, and there is no terror quite as great.

 **Convergence**

Some say player, some say piece, but our flesh is the board, and our arms race to cover a world our pedestal visions would save. Roses tint the mirrors and make it all seem fine.

We can't help bit run our mouths and eclipse each others dreams. But as we do, the paradox becomes more real. Imagine how absurd, two forces just competing, the ones to help the other shine their brightest. When balance favors neither scalding ice or freezing flames, we meet in our special middle. For this natural union- that's why we wait for spring.

THE END

Reviews welcome! Tried something a bit different with this one; here we have a series of prose of the more profound variety regarding Russia and America, Ivan and Alfred- and of course them together. I love the parallels of them as sun and moon, summer and winter, so I wanted to use that as a driving force behind this, with America as Solar, Russia as Lunar, and when these two eclipse, or seem to converge, we have Waiting for Spring. There are a few references made here, too.

References include:

The space race, with Sputnik being the shooting star that inspired a rush for emphasis on space exploration.

The chess-like nature of the Cold War, each move being met with counter-moves continuously.

The two extremes these two represent so much, summer and winter, sun and moon/star.

The Russian Navy sailing to NY (and CA) to support the Union during the Civil War.

How so much is justified one way or another as being for a greater good, by both sides, mind you.

The Russian Orthodox idea of suffering leading to redemption; we sin, then feel the guilt and agony of what we did and that pain is our punishment to then be more worthy of God.

"River veins" because so much of Russia was discovered via the rivers, being essentially the lifeblood of exploration and more through the land.


	14. Chapter 14

**Luchik i Zimovich**

Alfred enjoyed a repetitive yet happy life with his parents in their little country village. The elderly couple that lived next door had never had a child, and we're all too glad to have Alfred and his parents over to fill their house with noise.

One winter Alfred watches the couple build a small finger made of snow, pale strands of straw for hair, a pink scarf wrapped tight to keep it warm. That night, Alfred strides onto their property and smiles at the snowy creation and carefully carves a smile for the snowman.

When next Alfred visits the couple, he meets their new son, Ivan, pale as the frost coating the windows, joyful like the holidays, pink scarf around his neck hair the same platinum of the straws atop the the snowman's head…the snowman that lay in a heap, with only one set of footprints leading away.

Ivan is an odd one, but beautiful for all his idiosyncrasies. He feels warm easily, seeking the cold breeze outside for a reprieve from the fireside, but always telling Alfred how beautiful he thought sunny skies were. Alfred's new friend hardly ever gets sick, and moves through the snow as a dancer glides across a ballroom, December sunset eyes full of laughter and light. And Alfred's summer gaze is full of joy whenever he is with his new companion, this mysterious young man of the snow.

Ivan grows more reclusive as the months relent to spring's dewy mornings. Indeed, this is the most sickly Alfred has ever seen Ivan, and it only gets worse as summer skies light the world. Alfred too finds himself weakened with worry.

But the waning of the year provides Ivan with renewed vitality and soon he and Alfred is back in the company of his friend of silver and frost. Encouraged by Ivan's recovery, Alfred shares with Ivan his hobbies, his likes, his fears, and is delighted to hear of Ivan's love for the night sky, of the speckled midnight sea of stardust and dreams. Alfred tells Ivan ghost stories and scares himself more than Ivan, and Ivan is all too happy to impress Alfred with his natural talent on the ice.

But Ivan is a product of Winter and Spring. Upon the wishes of the elderly couple a year ago, the two spirits blessed upon them a child to love and raise, but a child subject to the laws of their nature. Love is too warm an emotion for a son of snow and ice, but comes as natural as the blooming of flowers in the spring time thaw. The agony of Ivan's budding love for Alfred sears his chest- his heart, and his life goes hurling toward a crossroads.

Some say it is hard to pinpoint the exact instant of falling in love. Alfred would look back and say his feelings built up with each passing instant with Ivan. But Ivan knew the exact moment he fell in love with Alfred, for the warmth of such a tender- such a human- emotion set his heart on fire.

The joy of ecstasy is always accompanied by pain. So too is the nature of love. Subject to something too warm for his winter heart to take, Ivan melted to nothing, dying with his love for Alfred to let him soar to the nighttime skies they both adored.

THE END

So, this was fun. Hard to write, emotionally, but fun. I had written another version of this with FRussia as a present for a friend, and wanted to also explore a RusAme take on it. The endings are different between both, and part of me does still want to go back and maybe change this one to be happy...or at least leave this, and write a separate happy one. We shall see. For now, here's the original.

The title Luchik i Zimovich is Russian, basically for The Ray of Light and the Son of Winter. Eternal thanks to cantankerouskaputnik on tumblr for explaining how to make the patronymic (for Russian middle names, add the father's name + ovich/evich for men, ovna/evna for women).

Let me know what you think!


	15. Chapter 15

**You Can Choose Your Family**

They had decided to name him Gleb.

Others, once wrenched from their stunned stupor, would ask, with nervous politeness, why they chose that name, to which Russia or America would explain, "He looks like a Gleb."

No one saw what they meant, and only a few said so.

"Well, Ivan wanted a Russian first name," Alfred would elaborate, sometimes without invitation, too blinded by overwhelming pride to search for such cues. "So, we settled with something a bit unique, short, simple, strong. And as a compromise to that, he has my first name as his middle. Gleb Alfredovich! Not gonna hear that name anywhere else!"

Russia, all the while, always somehow looked both near tears and near murderous with love and pride for his little family. For some, this was a deterrent. For others, particularly their female colleagues, they simply flocked over to inspect the little bundle of joy, cooing and congratulating. When such a swarm of affection converged on their beautiful child, the two nations beamed.

Nestled in their strong hold sat their child, Gleb, an inanimate, unused trash bag, crinkled yet otherwise pristine. None of the other nations, whether they played along or ran along, had witnessed the scene that ignites this new set of family dynamics, had not seen when the two countries were cleaning America's garage, and Russia had re-entered the room with the bag draped over his arm just so, so as to resemble the nestling blankets of a newborn baby. None of them had seen America playfully pretend to coo at the "baby" and fuss over the "new" father, Russia, had not seen Russia's roll of the eyes and tired chuckle… or the pause before he decided to continue the charade.

No one had seen how, as one longing couple, Russia and America had simply let their joke continue and expand into… not a reality, but simply a concept they were finding too much unsatisfied enjoyment in.

No one quite saw what Russia meant when, with a satisfied smile, he boasted, "He has a good, strong Russian nose. And keen eyes."

Apparently America saw it, for he made a show of looking down at their son, now cradled in Russia's arms, and nodding. "Sure does, babe. And good thing too. More he takes after his big tough, cuddly Russian papa bear, the safer he'll be."

Russia simpered. "Only if he also is fierce and dreams big like his flighty, stubborn American mama."

That good, strong, Russian nose received a flick in protest. "Don't you think that role goes to you, Mother Russia?"

Russia straightened in his seat, adjusting his hold on the flat, nondescript plastic bag that was their son. "Well, symbolically, yes, it is very important that I am the mother to all my people, the dear children of Russia." He refocused his attention on Gleb. "But to this little one, I shall be the papa he looks to for guidance of how to be powerful and immovable. He will need that if he is to be successful cosmonaut."

America frowned. "Cosmonaut, eh? You just decided this on your own?"

"It was easy decision," Russia explained, reaching into the powder blue duffel bag in which he carried baby formula. "He shall serve Roscosmos and make us all proud while colonizing Mars."

"A: not if NASA exclusively gets there first, and B: I actually think archeologist suits him better. He can be safe on earth digging up secrets of the past and make a name for himself and learn about the history of his ancestors."

"My son? Rolling around in the dirt, possibly encountering some cursed talisman of a vengeful spirit? No. My son will be highly decorated cosmonaut, win Hero of the Russian Federation, and retire with enough money to settle us into comfortable dacha by a lake."

"Oh, YOUR son?" America bristled immediately, arms folded tight over his chest.

"Yes, my son!" Russia said, voice raising in volume. He rose, holding baby Gleb tight to his chest. "I birthed him, and took care of him while you begged and pleaded with China to lessen the crippling debt you owe him. What kind of irresponsible parent would risk his son inheriting that?"

"YOU JUST SAID YOU DIDN'T WANT TO BE HIS MOTHER."

"Both of you. Calm. Down." In one fluid motion, Hungary had separated them by about fifteen feet, and had secured Gleb in a firm but comforting hold. "You'll wake him."

Poland shot her an incredulous look, motioning to Russia with a look that clearly said the country has finally lost it completely. Hungary pressed a finger to her lips, eyes alight. Fortunately, both Russia and America were focused on each other, expressions downcast, shoulders sagging.

"We should not be fighting," Russia said solemnly.

America nodded. "Y-yeah. For G's sake. And besides… we… I mean… he has plenty of time to figure out what he wants to do with his life. And we'll support whatever that is." Both countries met each other's gaze, faces set, and nodded. Satisfied, Hungary returned the crinkled, empty trash bag to them, and the trio embraced as a family made more whole.

It would not be easy, and it would not be perfect. But such was life and love with a family of any sort. For as Lev Tolstoy wrote, "happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

They would not always get it right, and there was no universal solution to any of their problems. But they were unique and they were together.

THE END

This is utter crack and if you read this, I'm sorry. Blame Vaecordia. We were talking, and she brought this up and I felt the need to make it real. Pretty much everything about this was a mistake born from a joke, and also RusAme wanting to have a family together. Again…I'm just so sorry.


End file.
